And How Does That Make You Feel?
by lizoftheinfinite
Summary: Tweek has a series of conversations with his therapist, none of which accomplish anything. Creek, crack, slash, stupidity. T for language.


**Posting this even though it's stupid, because it's okay to write stupid things sometimes.**

**Also, I'm pretty sure I stole this idea from somewhere else, although I can't think of where. **

* * *

"I think he's a serial killer."

Mr. Vandermeer taps his pencil to his lips. "Go on."

"He always has dark shadows under his eyes."

"So do you."

"Yeah, but mine are justified! He just looks creepy!"

Mr. Vandermeer sighs. "Tweek, it seems this boy honestly wants to be your friend. We've talked about you expanding your social circle, haven't we?"

Tweek's fingers curl tighter in his hair.

"Reason number two," he says. "He wears a hat all the time. If that's not hiding something, I don't know what is."

* * *

"You're particularly jumpy today. Mind talking about it?"

"I don't know. Um. Gah!"

"You're falling back to your verbal tics. You must be jarred. What happened?"

"I think I'm going to be his next victim!"

He twists and untwists his pen cap. "So it's about that boy again. Craig, right?"

"Urk – yes! Him!"

"What did he do?"

"I think he wants to kill me! I was just sitting on top of the lockers to eat my lunch like usual, and he came up to me and asked me if I wanted to go to this party he and his friends are having."

"And this means he wants to kill you because-"

"No one ever invites me to anything! GAH! I'M GONNA BE MEATLOAF!"

* * *

"So, how was the party?"

Tweek twitches, violently.

"Fun?" Mr. Vandermeer supplies.

"I wouldn't have gone if you hadn't told my parents to make me go," he says sullenly. "If you're trying to get me to act like a normal kid, you should have had them forbid me to go."

"So, how was the party?"

Tweek sighs.

"He didn't try to kill me," he says.

"We discussed this. We agreed you were probably invited because Token felt bad for you, not because Craig wanted to cut you open and eat your organs."

"He would cook them first! I know his ways! And nothing like that happened. There were shit loads of beer and stuff, but I didn't touch any of it because I want to be super-alert for when the aliens attack."

Mr. Vandermeer is used to the alien theories. He just waits for the rest.

"But Kenny was like, super wasted. He convinced me to go outside with him while he smoked. He offered me a cigarette and I asked him if he'd rolled weed in it and he said no so I took a puff and I think he was lying because after a little bit I stopped shaking as much."

"Go on."

"So after a bit Craig came out of the house, drunk and murderous and blue and all, and he told Kenny to come inside and kind of glared at me and asked me kind of sideways if I was okay and I was like yeah because he can't see my weakness, gah! And then the party ended and I went home."

"Hmm." Mr. Vandermeer scribbles down a few notes. "And what did you learn from this whole experience?"

He hopes for a few seconds, rather naively, that Tweek will spout out a life lesson.

Instead, he gets:

"Kenny and Craig are competitive serial killers. They both know I'm the hardest to catch in town, so they're both going after me. Craig is trying to keep Kenny off his prey. Now that they know I'm on to them, they'll redouble their efforts."

Mr. Vandermeer looks up from his notes.

Tweek smiles angelically. "It's okay, though, I always keep at least a dozen knives on me and I'm ready for when they come."

* * *

Today, Tweek has a rather subdued expression, and his eyes are less shifty than usual.

"What's on your mind?" Mr. Vandermeer asks.

Serial killer Craig has been a typical topic of conversation for the last week or so. Instead, Tweek is quiet for a few minutes.

"I've been practicing the piano more lately," he says.

"I really wish you would make a recording. I would love to hear your music."

"No! No one can hear me! I'm terrible!" He shudders. "I'll never give recitals ever again!"

"It would be good experience."

"But then everyone will know!"

"Know what, Tweek?"

"Know who I really am."

* * *

"Craig's been trying new methods on me," Tweek says, rather seriously.

"Oh, like what?"

"He's trying to lure me into thinking he has absolutely no animosity towards me and doesn't want to fry my organs and eat them as snack food. He's doing this by proclaiming his intent of various forms of friendship."

"Sounds like you're overanalyzing this."

"I'm not! He's a fucking serial killer!" Tweek sits on the edge of his seat. "I just want him gone so I can stop worrying about him all the time, goddamn it!"

"All right, all right," Mr. Vandermeer says. "And how does that make you feel?"

They smile wryly. It's their inside joke, how much of a therapist Mr. Vandermeer is and isn't.

"Scared, a bit," Tweek says. "But no more than usual."

* * *

"I slept well last night."

"Mmm-hmm."

"Yeah. No nightmares. Played the piano until the gnomes showed up."

"You really should-"

"I already said no one's ever going to heard me play, Mr. Vandermeer."

* * *

"Today, Craig penetrated my oral defenses."

It sounds like it requires a lot of exaggeration of Tweek's part for that statement to make any kind of sense, so Mr. Vandermeer wisely steers the conversation to more reasonable topics.

* * *

Tweek keeps staring at his hands, curling and uncurling his fingers.

"Thinking about the piano?" Mr. Vandermeer asks.

"What? Oh, yeah."

"We'll keep this session short, so you can get back to it."

He suspects a lie.

* * *

"He's getting sneakier, I'll give him that."

It sounds like he's going to have to take a lot of notes. Mr. Vandermeer readjusts the clipboard in his lap and poises his pen.

"He was trying to sneak into my room, to stab me in the throat, most likely. He doesn't realize I never sleep. So when he knocked on the window I opened it."

"Craig was at your window last night?"

"Yeah. He said he couldn't sleep. He didn't seem annoyed that I was awake. He wanted to know if I wanted to play videogames or something. I said I don't play videogames because they give me nightmares, and he was like, oh, weird, but he came into my bedroom anyway."

"I had my knives on me the whole time, so I was safe, I swear," he assures his therapist. Mr. Vandermeer nods and um-hmms.

"Anyway, he was, like, talking about normal stuff, and then he started talking about his parents, and about how much they fight, and how much they scare him and stuff. Trying to get my guard down so he can stab me in the back, probably."

Mr. Vandermeer sighs. "Tweek, has it occurred to you that Craig has emotional issues that he wants to unload on his friend-"

"_Waitwaitwait_ I'm not finished! Wait till I'm finished, goddamn it! And I know he's trying to trick me because of what happened next! He saw my piano and he asked me to play it!"

Mr. Vandermeer stops writing.

"And then?" he says quietly.

"And then he used, used like fucking hypnosis on me or something because I went and I played for him and he said it was beautiful and I played the fucking piano for someone else and it was for _him_!"

He buries his head in his hands.

"And then?"

"And he saw the real me," he whispers.

* * *

"Tweek, think about this logically. Everything Craig has done indicates friendship. He kept Kenny from giving you drugs. He asked you to be friends with him. He complimented your music. What about this indicates a serial killer?"

"I don't know! What kind of friend pushes you up against the bathroom stall, kisses your neck, and feels you up, huh?"

" . . . oh."

"He's trying to figure out my muscular structure and see what kind of fight I'd put up! He doesn't know that I'm a better fighter than my size suggests."

"I think-"

"Although, if he's going to kill me, then he's sure taking his time about it."

* * *

**My personal headcanon is that in ten years they would get married and Tweek would still think Craig was out to get him. **


End file.
